


PART FIVE: Love, Brother of Pain

by the1crazycatlady



Series: Love of My Un-Death [5]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula: Entre l'amour et la mort
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dracula Influence/References, Drug recovery, Drugs, Hospitalization, Hospitals, I Don't Know Anything About Hospitals, M/M, Souled Vampire(s), Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:51:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether they like it or not, Dracula and Renfield are quasi-together now and have a few things to deal with.</p><p>Thank god, something cheerier.</p><p>(Part 5/7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_May 20th, 2050_ **

For the record, Dracula woke up right as the legal hospital visitation hours ended; he was on-time in that sense.

He remembered that Renfield was being kept on the third floor, in a room that had a window. There had been another bed in that room, but it'd been empty when Dracula had been there.

The Count looked up the side of the hospital wall and inhaled a breath, brushing his hair out of his face. He pulled off his leather jacket and flung it over one shoulder, then grabbed the side of the building with his free hand and began to pull himself up. The arm, then legs following tout de suite. The wall was harsh against his fingers, small barbs pricking themselves into his palm like teeth, but all they could do was nibble at his hide.

He slithered up.

It had rained during the day and there was still a wet sheen on the windowsill. Looking inside, Dracula saw a mint person at Renfield's bedside, holding his arm – a jealous weed sprouted in the Count's core and he pulled his lip up into a quiet growl.

The mint person put Renfied's arm down and told him to call if he needed help. “We'll be monitoring your heart rate, just in case-”

“Okay.” Renfield pulled the powder blue blankets up and the mint person left him, exiting through a patch of light that pierced through the darkness. Quietly, Dracula slipped in-between the minute crack between the sill and the window and broke through on the floor on the other side.

Renfield sat up in bed. “Dracula! Wh-Wh-What are you doing here?”

The Count put a finger to his lips, glancing over at the door. He slid over to Renfield's bedside and crouched down onto his knees. His jacket slipped down to the floor in a puddle and Renfield stared at him from under the sheets that, now that Dracula really looked at it, were like his eyes: blue and grey and in a state of constant sickness.

Dracula blinked. “How are you?” he whispered.

Renfield sighed, shrugged, and turned his head away. “Fine,” he muttered. “They... They gave me something to help with the de-detox. Something. It makes me tired, but I can't-can't sleep because I hurt all over.” He glanced down at the arm attached to an IV tube and slid further under the blankets, huffing.

“At least...” Dracula searched for the proper phrasing, but nothing was euphemistically delicate enough. “At least you are alive.”

Renfield scoffed, turning his head away. Then he winced, groaning and rubbing at his leg.

“Are you not happy about that?” Dracula wondered. Renfield didn't say anything and the Count tapped him lightly on the thigh. _“Are you?_ Did you do this to yourself on..." The words wrapped themselves around his throat and started to strangle him. "On purpose?”

“It hurts,” Renfield mumbled. “All over, it _hurts.”_ He reached up and ran his fingers though his hair, and Dracula had to admit to himself that he preferred the man with disheveled hair – it made Renfield look more like himself, and that was something the Count found strangely comforting.

Renfield groaned, suddenly jerking. He gasped, moaned, and tears streamed down his face. Dracula glanced over at the door and reached for Renfield's hand.

“Hush!” the Count whispered, starting to panic. “Renfield, hush...”

“It hurts so much, Dracula. It fucking _hurts.”_

“It will be over soon, you just need to give it time-”

“But I don't want her to go!” Renfield sobbed. “She _can't_ go-”

Dracula put a hand on Renfield's chest, over the heart. “Calm down, Renfield, I beg you.” He stood up, cupping the side of Renfield's face; Renfield stared at him, eyes red and tired. His skin was damp and deliciously salty.

“Calm,” Dracula said. Renfield's heartbeat started to slow down to a more normal rate and Dracula nodded, brushing some hair out of the man's face. “Calm...”

“I don't want her to go,” Renfield repeated. His voice cracked, and, for a moment, he sounded almost feminine. Dracula found himself loving Renfield more for it.

“Who, my beloved?”

“She-She doesn't have a name,” Renfield stammered in a low tone, “but she always comes and loves me when I make myself high.” He flopped his head back onto the overstuffed pillow and looked up at the ceiling; Dracula's fingers accidentally brushed along his neck. The Count retracted his hand quickly, dropping it down to his side and swallowed.

Renfield continued: “She fucks me up and hurts me but she makes me happy and I love her for it.”

Dracula squeezed Renfield's hand. “Oh, Renfield, listen-”

“She wasn't coming, though,” Renfield murmured, putting his other hand over his eyes. “She was leaving me, so I tried to make her come back by giving myself more and more, but th-th-then I got so confused and tired and it was hard to breathe...”

Dracula squeezed his hand again and Renfield trailed off, pulling his chin down and looking at the Count. His eyes were red; he sniffed.

“It hurts.”

“I know, beloved, I know, and I apol-”

“How did it feel?” Renfield wondered suddenly, “to become a vampire? Was it painful?”

Dracula started at the question.

“It-it was not physical pain so much as emotional pain,” he stammered, only half-lying. “However, I...I, uh, quickly went into a comatose, and then...” He shrugged. “I died. 'Twas...as simple as that...”

“What was dying like?”

Dracula shook his head. “I would prefer not to go into that, especially considering the present situation.” He glanced back at the door. “And surroundings.”

Renfield merely shrugged. “Fine.”

They were quiet. Renfield stared up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, and Dracula watched his chest rise and fall, finding himself feeling numb. The sounds had died away, and all that was there was Renfield's breathing. It was peaceful. Whatever happened to someone, there was always their breathing there to anchor them; you knew things were bad if your breathing threatened you. But Renfield's breathing agreed with him now - things were all right.

Renfield eventually asked why Dracula was wearing one of his shirts.

Dracula glanced down and picked at the stained and ratty tank top. It was long lengthwise but tight and uncomfortable everywhere else. “My own shirt became covered in blood,” he explained quietly, “and I do not know how you clean your clothing.” He cleared his throat. “I hope that you do not mind.”

Renfield didn't respond to that, just shook his head without a word and pulled up the bed a little bit.

Dracula exhaled a deep breath, picking at the hair in his face. “Renfield... How long are they going to keep you here?”

Renfield sighed and muttered: “Till I'm done with detox. Because I re-refuse t-t-to do re-rehab again. But then I have to start seeing this th-therapist they lined up for me, and-and he'll make sure I'm not...going back...” His face became hard and cold.

“A therapist,” Dracula repeated. He sent up a quiet prayer of thanks to the mint man. “That is good.”

“Sure it is.” Renfield's voice was acidic and bitter. He groaned quietly and put a hand over his eyes – when he pulled the hand away, his face was wet again. Dracula lightly cocked his head off to the side, getting back down on his knees.

“They expect me to pay for all of it,” Renfield explained quickly, “but I can't! I-I just can't!” The tears slipped down his cheeks harder and faster as they tried to burrow channels in his face. “I'm st-still paying off _last time-”_

Dracula stood up suddenly and grabbed Renfield's hand. “This has happened before?”

Renfield nodded, trying to turn away; Dracula grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

Renfield wiped a hand over his eyes and suddenly seemed to be trying to tear off his face. “Three years ago,” he muttered, “be-before I met Johnathon. Then a few years before that.” He closed his eyes. “I tried to-to go straight, I really did, but-but-but she understands me, and... _and-”_

“Oh, Renfield.” Dracula took Renfield's hands in his own and shook his head. “Do not worry about the expenses, all right?” He bent down, kissing Renfield's fingers and looking the man straight in the eye. “I shall deal with it – as a...a sort of consolation for all that I have done to you. And you focus on getting better, hm?”

Renfield shook his head, trying to pull his hand away. “Count Dracula-”

“Vlad,” Dracula interrupted. He rubbed his thumb on Renfield's palm and they looked at each other.

“My name is Vlad,” Dracula muttered.

He expected for Renfield to say what _his_ first name was, or at least react to the statement, but there was nothing but a blank stare; Dracula eventually let go and pulled his hands away, letting them drop down to his side. He licked his lips and looked down at Renfield.

“I should be leaving now,” he said quietly. “You need to try and rest.”

Renfield shrugged, looking away. “Whatever.”

Dracula watched him for a moment, then inhaled a breath and turned away; he went back to the window and was about to slip out when Renfield spoke up.

“Vl-Vlad?”

Dracula quickly span around to face him.

Renfield pulled the bed back and wrapped the blankets back over himself. “Don't come tomorrow night,” he said. “Or any night after.” He winced and grabbed his arm. “I'll be...” A groan. _“Fine....”_

Dracula smiled weakly at him – it took a moment, but Renfield eventually quirked up a corner of his mouth and smiled back.

He would be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**_June 5th, 2050_ **

Renfield was so relieved to hear that he could leave the hospital. Now he could try and salvage his life back together, somehow... There was still the slight problem concerning Dracula's coffin in the kitchen, but that was okay - things would work out, or at least become more bearable. At some point, Lucy would come back, and then something or other would happen.

The doctor congratulated Renfield on making it through the worst of the detox period, then asked if he had anyone to stay with him for a while. “To make sure you don't turn back to the heroin.”

Renfield froze.

“Um.”

He spluttered: “My-My houseguest?”

“Is that the man who came in with you?” the doctor asked. Renfield nodded, glancing down at the smooth and spotless hospital floor. It was deathly white, sort of like Dracula's skin tone; Renfield flushed, rubbing his hands along his thigh.

“The nurse that talked to him said that he was some sort of Wallachian nobleman.”

“Yeah,” Renfield mumbled, yawning. “A Count.” His eyes were suddenly heavy and rock-like in his sockets and his body had gained a million pounds. It was so hard to keep his thoughts straight and lined up in order; he yawned again.

“Could he come here later today so I could talk with him?” the doctor wondered?

“Um.” Renfield drew in a breath. “No-No. He has a schedule. Th-Th-Thing.” He began to rub his hands together nervously. “He wouldn't be able to come till late. Very late."

The doctor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Renfield tensed, glowering down at the floor.

“Have him call me when he can,” they said. “Here's my cell phone number.” Then the doctor gave Renfield a card and patted him on the shoulder. Renfield took the card without a word, slipping it into his pocket with the makeup and tampons.

 _Shit,_  he thought suddenly, pulling his hand out quickly and staring at the doctor. _They probably told him._

He swore under his breath and felt sick.

\+ + +

The day was drawing coming to a close and Renfield saw that there was a lot of old food in the fridge. He'd need to go grocery shopping. Glancing over at the rectangular wood coffin on the floor and then out the window, he slipped off his jacket and tossed it onto the bar. He began to pull all the old food out – it was something to do - something to get his mind off the cravings. _Something._

He was throwing some moldy cheese into the garbage when he remembered The Box. He recalled how smooth and relaxed the wood had been against his damp, sweat-drenched skin. She'd liked The Box; she had reached over his lap and pulled out one of the bags, commenting on a what a great man Dracula was.

“He's not great,” Renfield had protested.

“He isn't bad, though,” she stated, slipping out a syringe and bumping it against his leg. “He's a greyscale.”

Now that he thought about it, Renfield wondered where The Box had gone. He could _feel_ the drug shadows tiptoeing through his body and mocking him more and more with each passing second. He groaned, slamming the fridge shut and holding his head in his hands.

If The Box was going to be anywhere logical, it'd be in the coffin...with Dracula... Renfield shuddered, leaning back against the fridge door. He stared down and then looked back out the window – the sky was an indigo blue. He should have time to at least look, right? Just look to see if The Box was there, and, if it was, take a small hit to calm his nerves. Just a small one.

Renfield swallowed, squatting down. He put his palms on the top of the coffin and discovered that it was rough and dusty to the touch. He shuddered, sliding his hands along it; before the nerve went away, he grabbed the edges of the lid and pulled it aside.

When the dust had settled and Renfield had stopped coughing, he glanced into the coffin and gasped.

“V-V-Vlad!” he stammered, standing up. Dracula stared up at him, face frozen into a glower. There was dried blood in his beard, and when Renfield looked down, he saw that the vampire's hands were wrapped tightly around The Box. He wasn't breathing at all, just lying still and glaring.

“Vlad, it-it's not what it looks like!” Renfield protested. But Dracula didn't do or say anything; Renfield bent over the coffin.

“Vlad?” he asked. When there was nothing, he tried: “Count Dracula?”

Still nothing; Renfield sighed, shaking his head and reaching for Dracula's hands.

“Fucking hate vampires,” he mumbled to himself.

He grabbed Dracula's wrist and pulled the hand away. Dracula's skin was ice to the touch and his grip was tight; Renfield yanked on The Box and smiled when it slid away. Panting quietly to himself, he fell back and flipped up the lid. His face fell.

Black.

Renfield trembled, shaking his head and turning the box over, waiting for something to come out – but there was _nothing_ , absolutely nothing, it was just a stupid black box with _nothing in it_. Furious, he slammed the box down onto the kitchen tile, barely noticing when the wood cracked.

Tears pricked at his eyes and, moaning, he laid back. The grimy tile floor was such a relief against his hot skin, but she still wasn't coming. She was gone. Gone. She was gone and he'd never see her again.

He turned over onto his side, facing away from the coffin and the box and trying to fight against the suffocation. Hate wrapped itself around his throat and he reached out, trying to push it away. _Leave me alone._

It was a stupid thing to do, but he thought about his mother and father. _“My daughter is _not_ a freak of nature - do you hear me, Rebecca? You are _not_ one of those horrible, ungrateful little sinners rebelling for the sake of popularity._ _”_  There was a sudden pain on his cheek and he winced, kicking the garbage can. It hurt, but he didn't care, not really – he was too numb to care. _“Your mother's right, Rebecca. You're a young woman – that's the way God made you. Why do you suddenly have this idea that you're transgender?”_

Renfield wondered why Dracula had to be there; the Count was making things worse by being himself and then just plain _there_.  He couldn't find out about Renfield now, he just couldn't. It wouldn't work. None of it would work. Renfield didn't want him to go, but he had to, because Renfield couldn't let him know. Dracula wouldn't understand.

And if he already knew... Renfield felt sick. He _couldn't_  know, he just _couldn't-_

Someone put their hand on his waist; Renfield whirled onto his back, his heart thundering in his ears. Dracula brushed his hand along Renfield's cheek and lightly brushed away the tears with his long fingernails.

“I disposed of them.” Dracula held up the cracked black box and Renfield hiccuped.

The Count looked down at him, eyes like deep black pools. “I have missed you, love.”

Renfield blinked at him and saw the dried blood again. He pushed Dracula's hand away, sitting up and scrambling over towards the living area. The other man made a surprised sound and rose to his feet.

“Renfield?" he asked. "Is something the matter?”

Renfield was in the living room now, staring at the bloodstained bed with no blankets; he looked at Dracula over his shoulder and put a finger to his chin. Dracula repeated the action and turned away, asking for Renfield to forgive him, he was so sorry, he had gotten in too late to clean up!

The blood honestly didn't bother Renfield that much, but the idea of it sure as hell scared him. He involuntarily shuddered, rubbing at his inner elbow - the scar was sore again.

“Where are my blankets?” he wondered. Dracula wiped his wet face on the hem of his shirt. _My shirt_ , Renfield corrected himself, tearing his gaze away from the Count's subtly defined abs and making eye contact with the vampire.

“I...put everything in the bathtub,” the Count explained, dropping the shirt and smoothing it down. “Was that all right? I was not sure what to do...”

Renfield flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “It's fine,” he said. “Just-Just curious.” He turned over, waiting for the tiredness to return, but now he couldn't fall asleep no matter how hard tried.

“Renfield?” Dracula asked. “Renfield, beloved, are you all right?”

“Don't call me that,” Renfield muttered.

“Call you what?”

 _“Beloved,”_ he repeated; “it's ridiculous.”

Dracula sighed, walking over and putting a foot on the edge of the bed; he looked like he doing a demented lunge and Renfield stared at him with a funny look on his face.  _What the fuck?_

“What else am I supposed to refer to you as?” the Count wondered. “ 'Renfield' is not particularly romantic.”

Renfield gaped at him, jaw opening and closing monotonously. Then he looked the Count up and down, watched as Dracula's other leg up pulled itself up onto the bed and the vampire laid down on his side, staring expectantly at Renfield. The addict began to laugh lightly to himself and grabbed the pillow, pulling it over his head.

“I can't believe this is happening,” he muttered into the mattress. “The freaking vampire that kidnapped me and supplied me with drugs now wants to bang me.” He drew in a breath and coughed, eventually collapsing into laughter and shaking all over.

Dracula sat up, reaching over and pulling the pillow away; he tossed it off to the side. Then he put a hand on Renfield's shoulder and shook his head quietly. Renfield took one look at him and started to laugh harder.

“A vampire!” he breathed. “A damn bloodsucking vampire of myth and lore!” He choked up and pulled his hands over his eyes, trying to tear them out of his skull – Dracula held out his arms and Renfield lunged at him, sobbing.

Dracula was cold to the touch and the lack of a heartbeat was unnerving. But his bare arms were soft and tight around Renfield, and someone with velvety fingers brushing away the tears was nevertheless comforting, despite their long claws.

“Don't kill me,” Renfield mumbled, sliding down and resting his head on Dracula's lap. He tried not to think about how awkward the whole scene felt.

“Shh,” the Count whispered, petting Renfield's hair down – he took care to stay away from Renfield's neck. The sentiment was terrifying and made the addict cry harder.

“I would never hurt you on purpose,” Dracula told him. “All I want is for you to be happy.” He patted Renfield's shoulder, stroking his scar and muttering: “Is that so much to ask?”

It was. Oh, Lord, it was _so_ much to ask. Happiness was so foreign and unknown and Renfield just didn't know – nothing he used to enjoy doing made him feel _anything_ anymore; he was so worn-out and tired. He was nothing but a prisoner walking to the scaffold with his head promised to the blade.

Renfield wished that Lucy would understand, or at least look at him and smile without being prompted. Come out of his fantasies and love him despite everything.

He wanted _her_ back so much.

The hand on his shoulder ran along his upper arm: up and down, up and down, then up again. Slowly, monotonously. The hand was cold and lifeless, animated by sin and an unwanted destiny. Renfield jerked, opening his eyes and staring straight ahead at the bar. Dracula stopped comforting him,  just rested his hand on Renfield's arm and waited. Quietly.

The coat was dangling slightly over the edge of the counter. Oh god, could Dracula see the lumps from the makeup and the bag of tampons? He had to – they were gigantic and mocking. Any moment, the Count would wonder about them and go over to look and he would comment and reveal something the hospital told him and it would all be over.

Danny Baker would be saying that Renfield should tell him, “or don't.” Renfield swallowed, turning onto his back. Dracula looked down at him, raven-black hair sliding down and dangling over Renfield's head.

“I...” Renfield paused and looked away, off to the side. He didn't want to watch the Count's reaction. “I...”

Dracula waited. He had his hand on Renfield's arm, and it was so nice there. Renfield had always been so hot, and the cool deadness was relaxing – he wanted Dracula stay postitioned like that for all eternity.

"Did-Did the hospital people, um..." He licked his lips, blinking up at the Count. "Did they say anything, li-li-like...str-strange?"

Dracula cocked his head at him, frowning. "Strange?" he repeated. "Like what?"

"Um-um..." Renfield couldn't breathe and his heart pounded in his chest. "You know, _strange..."_

The Count smiled and Renfield was suddenly hooked. He stared, unable to look away this time - he was in a limbo, stuck like a fly on flypaper.

"The mint man asked me questions," Dracula began, "but I could not answer most of them. For example, I had to tell him that I did not know your full name."

 _Rebecca Mary Renfield,_  something whispered into Renfield's ear; he squirmed uncomfortably and felt guilty.

"There were other things, too," the Count mused, glancing at something out of the corner of his eye. "Bizarre procedures that seem unnecessary, but no, nothing 'strange,' as you so put it."

For a moment, Renfield was weirdly disappointed - if the hospital people had told Dracula, then it would out and Renfield could mostly stop worrying about it. But the Count still didn't know. After all, if he knew, wouldn't he have mentioned it? If he knew, wouldn't he be confused and old-fashioned and unaccepting? He was over five centuries old, too much like Jaine Renfield, and he was supposed to be asking questions about Renfield's mental state, just like everyone else, and then Renfield was supposed to have to explain, and then...

He sat up. “The doctor from the hospital wants to talk to you.” He put his feet on the floor and rose; Dracula's hand slipped down and away. Renfield continued: “I'll get the number. It's in my coat-”

“No, I can do it.” Dracula stood and tried to push Renfield back down, but the man shook his head, sidestepping and lunging for his coat.

“No!” he cried out. Then he took a deep breath, ignored the Count's confused look, and reached into the pocket. “I... I've got it.”

The bag of tampons burned against his skin and he turned away from the Count, biting his lip. He pushed them aside with his fingers and slipped out the card. He put the coat back down and straightened up, turning back to the vampire.

“W-Would you like me to dial the number?” He was already reaching for the cell phone.

“If you please.” Dracula pushed aside some papers on the bar and sat down on the edge of it, studying his fingernails. “I wish not to summon the disembodied spirit of Lisa of the Madison residence again.”

“Wha-” Renfield broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind.” He turned to the phone. “I don't want to know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_June 10th, 2050_ **

John Seward was a short, stout man with dark brown hair that was slicked back with too much gel. He seemed nosy and bored at first glance, so Renfield didn't expect a lot from him.

His office was nice, though, but in an ugly way – Renfield had never been one for abstract art. He preferred to _understand_ things right off the bat rather than have to figure it out for himself; call it laziness or stupidity, that was just what he preferred.

“Take a seat.” Seward's voice was light and serious. “Wherever you're comfortable.”

Renfield waited for the doctor to sit down so he could follow along after and awkwardly sit as far away as possible, but Seward didn't move. He just stood there, smiling and waiting. Renfield flushed and stepped further into the room, ignoring the recliners and zoning in on a couch. _What's the word?_ he asked himself as he sat down. _Cliché – that's it, cliché._

Dr. Seward took the chair next to the couch and pulled a tape recorder out of his briefcase. “Would you mind if I record our sessions?” he wondered. “I assure you that no one would hear it but me and, if you wanted, yourself.”

“Sure, fine.” Renfield rubbed at his elbow and looked out the window; it offered him a view of skyscrapers and people with no lives outside of those aforementioned skyscrapers. “Whatever.”

“All right, then.” Seward fiddled with his toy a minute, then put it down on the table next to him. He introduced himself and started to talk about privacy and consent, and the only instances when he'd share something Renfield told him. Renfield just shook his head numbly and watched some cute girls zoom by on their bikes. Their hair flew back as they went by, and he could hear them laughing; it made his heart ache inside. _Lucy..._

“Do you have a preference concerning what I call you?” Seward asked. “Your paperwork said that your first name is Rebecca, but I don't know if you actually use it-”

“I don't,” Renfield said quickly. “I go by my last name.”

“May I call you Renfield?”

“Go ahead.” Renfield leaned his head back and rested it on the back of the couch. “I-I don't care."

Dr. Seward made some notes in a little notebook. “Okay then. To begin with, could you tell me why you're here?”

“What?” Renfield pulled his head up and looked at the doctor strangely. “What do you mean?”

“Why have you come to therapy?” Seward wondered.

“Because the hospital made me,” Renfield replied. “Come on, you _have_ to know.”

Seward ignored the second part of the question. “Why did the hospital make you?”

Renfield squirmed, crossing one leg over the other and rocking back and forth. He stared at the bare knee peaking out through a hole in his jeans and circled his kneecap until it made him shudder. He peeked over at Seward and saw that the doctor was waiting, pencil suspended over the notebook, face calm.

 _Get a grip_ , Renfield, he told himself. _You're supposed to burden him._

“My...um...” Strangely, the hardest thing was for Renfield to find a proper way to label Dracula and fully convey his current part of his life. “My-My-My house...guest... _person_ found me in the bathtub w-with a her-her-heroin overdo-dose.”

“Oh my,” Seward breathed. Renfield just shrugged.

“Was it the first time you took drugs?”

“No, no,” Renfield muttered. “My first time was when I was eighteen. At a p-p-party.” He picked at the chains dangling from his shirt and tried to put himself back under that bush, where he was safe and alone. "Just a little."

“Why were you using heroin?” Seward asked.

 _Why do you care?_ Renfield wanted to ask, but instead he sat and actually thought about the question.

“I-I don't know,” he said. Then he pulled his legs up, pressing his knees against his chest and staring blankly at the floor. “B-Because I liked the relief and feelings of love, I-I-I-I guess? Like-Like someone actually cares...”

“But I'm sure there's someone out there who loves you,” Seward remarked; Renfield shrugged. “Friends, family-”

“I haven't talked to my family in ten years,” Renfield said coldly.

Dr. Seward suddenly reached over, holding out a box of Kleenex. “Why not?” When he saw Renfield's face, he smiled. “They're if you want them,” he explained; “you look very sad all of a sudden is all.”

“S-S-S-Sad?” Renfield repeated. Seward nodded and Renfield took the box, pulling out a tissue and staring at it. Small, white and dusty particles slipped off and covered his fingers, sliding in-between the grooves of the pads; he wiped his hands on his pants and tossed the box – and the tissue – over to a spot next to him.

“I've-I've...been w-worse,” he mumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

**_June 21st, 2050_ **

Renfield turned over in bed and pulled the blankets tighter around himself. Then, slowly, painfully, he curled up into a tight little ball and twitched. He groaned, sinking further beneath the covers.

Then he began to moan and whimper. He squirmed, kicking the blankets away. “Go away,” he muttered. “Go away!” He turned back onto his other side and clutched the pillow tight against his chest. “Go away...”

He flinched and wrapped his arms around himself. He whimpered louder and then, quickly, sat up. It seemed like he couldn't breathe and his hair stuck to his face and the nape of his neck and he looked around with insane eyes.

Dracula regarded him from his seat at the bar. Their eyes locked and Renfield stood up, coming over and collapsing onto the counter.

“Things shall be better soon,” Dracula assured him, reaching over and patting his hand. Renfield sighed and pulled over a bar stool. He sat down with a slouch.

“What are you doing?” he yawned, shifting through the paperwork as he tried to find his cell phone. Dracula glanced down at the sea of magazines and newspapers.

“Looking at your fascinating news coverage,” he replied, flipping a page in the newspaper and turning back to his fingers. “And trimming my fingernails – they have become too long, unfortunately, and now they must be cut.” He continued: "I shall also have to trim my hair soon, as it has grown quite long, and my waist-length dreadlock days ceased four centuries past."

Renfield rolled his eyes and picked up a magazine. He flipped open to a dog-eared magazine that Dracula hadn't gotten a chance to look at yet. He slammed it shut and tossed it over his shoulder. “Nothing important in these things,” he muttered. “Just garbage about the war.”

“Not all of it,” Dracula remarked, putting down the fingernail trimmer and reaching over for a newspaper. “I found an old article about the cultural origins of something called bisexuality, and 'tis very interesting. I think it describes-”

“That's nice,” Renfield interrupted. Dracula closed his mouth and sighed, scanning the headlines for a moment before just shaking his head and picking up his fingernail trimmer; he got to his feet. Renfield eyed him and lifted up a stack of magazines, straightening them and counting how many there were.

“Renfield,” Dracula began, swinging himself up onto the bar; he crossed his legs. “Renfield, beloved, I think we need to... Well, talk about a plan.”

Renfield wasn't making eye contact with him now, just looking for his cell phone. “Wh-What plan?”

“I cannot stay here, you know," Dracula told him; "I am too conspicuous.” Or the coffin on the kitchen floor was, at any rate.

“Yes,” Renfield agreed.

“I should return to Wallachia as soon as those people return.”

“Yes.”

The Count breathed a sigh of relief. “And you can follow after as soon as-”

“No.”

“No?” Dracula repeated, voice cracking.

“N-No,” Renfield stammered. “I am not going to go to Wallachia to-to live with you and those demented women in your horror-movie castle.” He picked up a magazine and opened it, then waved it at the vampire. “I want _this_ back.”

Dracula plucked the magazine out of Renfield's grasp and looked down at it. It was an article by that Johnathon Harker fellow, and there were pictures of people running in fear from law officials.

“ 'Martial Law Declared In Andorra',” the Count read. He glanced over at Renfield. “You want there to be martial law?”

 _“No,”_ Renfield sighed, exasperation seeping through his tone; “I want that life again, Vlad.”

Underneath the pictures were captions with small notes as to whom the photographer was: _R.M. Renfield._ Dracula groaned, slamming the magazine down onto the bar, uncrossing his legs, and tightening his grip on the fingernail trimmer.

“I don't want to be locked away in a castle my entire life,” Renfield quickly explained, picking up his cell phone. “This is something I can _do_ , a...like...a purpose in life. Or something. Be-Being in your castle might have worked five centuries ago, but - for Christ's sake - this is 2050. I want a _life._  And I want..." He suddenly got a funny look on his face and swallowed, crossing one leg over the other and pursing his lips together.

"Want what?" Dracula asked quietly.

Renfield went white. "Ju-Just something Doc-Doc-Doctor Seward mentioned to me," he muttered. "It's not important." Then he shook his head, suddenly deeply interested in something on the screen of his cell phone. The Count looked at him and sighed, glancing down at the bar.

He ought to have been mad, but he honestly wasn't. Of course it wouldn't work – what had he been _thinking?_ Love was hopeless for a monster: his former wife's reincarnation was in love with another man and the drug addict he'd kidnapped didn't want to be with him. Love was cruel that way. Really, why did he bother leaving his castle anymore? There was nothing for him to do except kill people and then go back to his coffin to nurse a broken heart in a sea of blood.

 _You are being dramatic,_ a voice in his head scolded.

 _I am being realistic,_ he told it.

“Besides," Renfield added, "I-I-I barely know you to begin with.”

The silence became unbearable and Dracula wondered: “So... We are leaving it thus? I go, you reconcile with everyone, and that is the last we know of each other?”

Renfield opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He made eye contact with the Count for a fleeting second and shrugged apologetically; he looked guilty. Without a further word, he turned back to his phone.

It shouldn't have hurt so much. They'd only known each other for two months – or was it less than that? Either way, it was a very short period of time and this shouldn't have been so painful. After all, this had happened before, with Elhemina, and it was nowhere near as violent this time.

But it still hurt.

"But..." Dracula suddenly realized that he had a hangnail. "But, Renfield, I promised to pay for your expenses."

Renfield tensed up again and took a deep breath, staring down at his lap and crossing his legs again. "I-I-I don't c-care, V-Vlad."

Dracula frowned at him. “Renfield, I do not think...”

 _“God,_ what is it now, Vlad?” Renfield sighed.

“I am not sure you can bear to be alone.” The broken black box winked at them from its hidden place under a mess of destroyed blankets behind the bar and Renfield made a face.

“I can deal with it.”

“I would feel better if I knew that for a certainty, my love.”

Renfield huffed, standing up and crossing his arms over his chest. “So what are you saying? You won't go now?”

“I do not think that would be a wise thing to do, not at this time.” Dracula brushed his hair out of his face. “You are so fragile-”

“I am not,” Renfield protested.

“I do not trust you to be safe!” Dracula shot back. Renfield glared at him and grabbed his neck.

“In that case, I shouldn't be with you to begin with.”

Dracula smiled softly. “That is true.” He frowned. “But, really, Renfield, I would prefer-”

 _“Fine,"_ Renfield interrupted, voice harsh. Then his face softened and he sighed. "Whatever...whatever works for you, I guess...”

He yawned and turned to go back to the pull-out bed. However, right then, Dracula slid up next to him and grabbed his hand. Startled, Renfield turned his head to face the Count and Dracula quickly slipped him into an embrace, suffocating the other man in his grasp.

“Um,” Renfield mumbled to the top of the Count's head. “Vl-Vlad?”

Dracula pulled away. "You smell better now, my beloved, did you know that?"

Renfield stared at him and shook his head. "No, I didn't know." He blinked. "Th-Thanks for telling me?"

Dracula smiled softly. “And do you want to go somewhere with me tonight?”

“Um.” Renfield licked his lips and gritted his teeth. “I thought that-that...you know, th-that you didn't want m-m-me to think about the...the death rate...”

Dracula shook his head, holding back another smile. “No, not for me – for you. I want to give you some happiness and get to know you better.”

Renfield went a bit white in the face, shook a little, then pulled himself away and said that sure, fine, he would get dressed and then they could go out. “What-Whatever.”

Dracula wanted to kiss him.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Continued, Same Night_ **

Smiling was easier, and, strangely enough, a couple of Renfield's grins weren't forced. It was Dracula who did most of the talking, mostly about his life five centuries ago and then a few stories about his experiences as a vampire. The tales were honestly a bit boring, but Renfield found them to also be entertaining in their own personal ways.

They got back to the flat at four-thirty. Renfield's body hung with exhaustion and his forehead throbbed with a sudden craving he put out of his mind by hiding under his hood and slowly beginning to nod off.

“Renfield?” Dracula muttered. Groaning, Renfield opened his eyes.

“Mm?” he sighed.

“May I have the keys?”

They were at Renfield's apartment – when had they gotten there? Well, no matter. Renfield sighed and reached into one of the pockets in the lining of his coat. Blinking to stay awake, he pulled out a set of keys; Dracula took them without a word.

He opened the door and they went inside – first Renfield, then Dracula. Renfield rubbed at his eyes and stifled a yawn.

Suddenly, Dracula tightened his grip on Renfield's wrist. He steered him over to the bed and sat him down, pausing to hover protectively over him. Renfield looked up at him, eyes drooping more than usual, then just shook his head and laid back. Dracula watched him for a moment, then jerked his head around, nose twitching and eyes crazy. He narrowed in on the bathroom door and pulled it open.

“You!” he said just as two women cried: “Master!”

Renfield sat up, but the only thing really on his mind right then was the fact that the people in the bathroom were keeping him from getting into his pajamas and sleeping.

“What are you two doing here?”  Dracula demanded. “Why-” Two women reached forward from inside the bathroom and flung themselves at him. Renfield recognized them as two of the vampiressess: the blonde and the short one with dark hair.

“Master, it's dreadful!” the dark-haired one shrieked, clutching at Dracula's shirt. “Deli – she...she... Oh, Lord! Master, she is gone!”

“Delilah? What?”

“Those people,” the blonde explained, pulling the other away; she sounded more sane. “Johnathon Harker, Van Helsing, and two women. They came to the castle sometime in the latter part of the day and searched it for Mr. Renfield. When they found us...” She pointed to herself and the other vampiress. “They had already found Deli.”

“She was gone!” the short woman gasped, putting her hands over her eyes; the blonde slipped an arm around her and she continued in short, quick breaths: “Not even...no-no remains...just gone!” She sobbed quietly.

“They will be returning to England,” the other explained, taking a deep breath, “and we are sure that they won't stop until they know what happened to Mr. Renfield.” She peeked over Dracula's shoulder and pointed her chin at the other man. “Why haven't you killed him already, anyway?”

Dracula hissed at them and they recoiled, looking at each other, then back at the Count. They held each other close and the short one got blood all over the blonde's bare shoulder.

“That is my business,” Dracula replied; “and you _both_ shall leave him alone, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of-Of course, Master.”

Renfield looked at the vampiresses and eventually at Dracula. His head was clearer then and he glanced back at the women. They were watching him with sad, hungry eyes, and he clutched at his tattered old quilt. He told himself that Dracula would keep him safe, that Dracula would keep the vampiresses away.

Suddenly, Renfield didn't care to hear the rest of the story, or what would happen now. He just shook his head and laid back down, turning away from the vampires. The ground seemed to move beneath him and there was a train's whistling somewhere ahead of him. The voices died down to a dull roar and he closed his eyes.

Who cared if he survived the night, anyway?


End file.
